


A Stark By Any Other Name

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriages, F/F, Femslash, Mentions of Rape, Politics, Starks in different houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Starks born in different houses, plus one Snow still born a Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stark By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic contains Roose Bolton casually referring to the woman that he raped and pretty much ordering someone (who will remain unnamed) to rape someone else. 
> 
> Like I thought this was worth a warning. Beware, friends.

1. 

 

Ned Stark’s head rolls, and the Realm descends into chaos. Lysa tries to keep Robb from making any rash decisions, and they are able to keep the Vale out of the ridiculous war for months. Then, her sister sends a letter requesting their assistance, or as Lysa sees it, trying to guilt her into dragging the Vale into her son’s war.

 

The letter covers two sheets of paper, but its closing words are fairly concise,

_Family. Duty. Honor, Lysa_

_Please, sister, convince your son to call his banners. We share a common enemy._

_-Catelyn Tully Stark_

 

Her son reads it quickly, and has a much different reaction than she would have hoped.

“We need to help her,” Robb says, dropping the letter back onto the desk.

“This is not your war,” Lysa tells him, “Theon Stark can fight his own battles.”

“He’s my cousin,” Robb says, as if that’s all the reason he needs to risk life and limb on this pointless war.

“The men of the Vale should stay in the Vale,” Lysa asserts. He’s her son- her only child, and she won’t lose him to her nephew’s folly.

“Mother,” he says, “I refuse to hide away in the Eyrie while there’s a war being fought. Arryns aren’t cravens.” She wants to tell him that cravens are the sort of men that live through wars. Ned Stark was an honorable man, and they took off his head. Jon Arryn was an honorable man, and she poisoned him herself.

“Robb-“

“The Lannisters killed my father,” Robb says. She wants to scream at him.

_The Lannisters did not kill your father_ , she thinks, _I did._

“I will call my banners,” he tells her, “and the Vale will support the king in the North. Father will be avenged.”

“Robb,” she tells him, “don’t do this. The Lannisters are too powerful.”

 

“That’s what they said of the Targaryen’s,” he says with a teasing glint in his eyes. Robb thinks that he will bring honor and glory to his house. He thinks that he will be a hero of a rebellion, like his father. But the Rebellion was no song, and Jon Arryn met an unpleasant end.

_At my hand,_ Lysa thinks, _mine and Petyr’s._ Petyr has abandoned her now, and left the Realm to the carnage they created. She wonders if that was his intention all along. He never did love her the way he loved Cat.

 

The next day, her son marches to Riverrun to avenge the husband that she murdered. She tries not to fear for the worst that she knows will come.

 

2.

 

The Capitol is falling apart. That is what everyone says, at least. Her grandfather is dead, her uncle has been expelled from the city, and her mother is going mad. Not to mention Joffrey’s impending marriage to Margaery Tyrell.

“Aren’t you glad that you’re stuck in Dorne?” Arya whispers to her as they listen to the highborn ladies gossip about the state of the Capitol. Myrcella nods to the other girl, and most of the time, she honestly _is_ glad to be rid of the Capitol. Her mother has always been blind to Joffrey’s cruelty, or she simply did not care once he started channeling it towards the Stark girl.

Arya pecks her gently on the lips. She remembers back when she first came to Dorne, how confused she was that women and men were so open with their affections, especially towards the same-sex. Myrcella did not even know that there were other girls who wanted to kiss girls before she came to Sunspear. Now she has found a partner. For better or for worse, Myrcella is tied to Arya Martell now. Two girls of five and ten, and they feel like they can take on the world. Myrcella likes to think sometimes that they actually can.

 

“My brother doesn’t deserve you,” Arya says, as they kiss softly in her chambers. The dark-skinned girl with the sly smile makes Myrcella feel safe, safer than she should feel in a nest of vipers.

“You’re the oldest sibling,” Arya tells her, “in Dorne, you would inherit before your brother.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Myrcella murmurs. She doesn’t particularly wish to be queen, but she knows that she would be better for the Realm than Joffrey, _Anyone_ would be better for the Realm than Joffrey.

“You know,” Arya tells her, “I might be able to convince my father to declare you queen.” Myrcella curls up closer to her under the bright white sheets.

“That sounds like madness,” Myrcella tells her.

“You are the oldest,” Arya tells her, “and you already have a king and a hand.”

“And who would be my hand?” Myrcella asks, “perhaps Nymeria, with all her shrewd politics, or your sister Arianne, with her tight-fitting clothes, or perhaps Theon Stark?” Her teasing has the desired effect, as Arya climbs on top of her and kisses her fiercely on the lips.

“Me,” she says breathlessly, “Arya Martell would be your hand.”

“I don’t recall agreeing to this,” Myrcella says coyly.

“If I get you crowned,” Arya says, “I get to be your hand. Those are the rules,”

“I can’t argue with that logic,” Myrcella says, pulling Arya down for another kiss.

 

Arya slips into her bed the night later, and Myrcella can see shock and terror in her eyes.

“You won’t be queen,” she says. Myrcella is shocked, because she never expected Arya to _actually_ ask her father.

“What happened?” Myrcella demands as she sits up beside Arya on the bed. The candle Arya brought with her sits on the night stand, gently illuminating their chambers.

“Father plans to ally with the Dragon Queen,” Arya whispers.

“ _We will serve them fire and blood_ he said,” Arya continues, “the Lannisters. He wants the Lannisters dead.” Arya sounds terrified, and a cold feeling passes over Myrcella. She is stuck in a nest of people who want her family dead, and her only friend is a girl of five and ten.

“Do they want _me_ dead?” Myrcella asks, her voice little more than a whimper. She fears she will never feel safe again.

“I won’t let any of them harm you,” Arya promises her, and they kiss in the cool darkness of their chambers. But Myrcella fears that not even Arya will be able to save her when the Dragon Queen comes.

 

3. 

 

Victorian has never been able to tell if Rickon is truly his son. The boy was born a few months before he found out that Euron had been sleeping with his wife, and before… before the events that happened after that. Rickon looks enough like a Greyjoy, though. He has thick black hair and wild determination. The boy is only six, but he wields a sword like a boy twice his age, and he grins like a loon with a mad twinkle in his eyes. The sort Euron had before he actually went mad.

It was easier to ignore his fears about Rickon’s parentage when Euron was banished. _Everything_ was easier when Euron was banished. But now Euron has returned, and the brother he hates has become his king. It makes him ill to even think about.

 

Euron requests a private audience with him, and everyone knows that a king’s request is as good as an order. Victarion brings himself and his son to the castle, and leaves Rickon in the Great Hall while he and his brother-king speak in private.

Euron asks him to bring Daenerys Targaryen to him, to take to wife. Victarion grits his teeth throughout the entire exchange, but does not protest. Euron is still his king, no matter how much he deplores him. He left his son in the great hall with the other men.

“I will collect Rickon and we will leave tomorrow,” Victarion says.

“Rickon is to stay here,” Euron says, “he is to be my heir.” As he finishes, Euron grins as wide as the Wall. Victorian wonders if his brother’s whole purpose has always been to drive him madder than Euron himself.

“Rickon is _my_ son,” Victarion growls, “he will come with me to find your Silver Queen.”

“Of course he won’t,” Euron tells him with an arrogant smile. Euron knows that Victarion will no more betray him than convert to the Faith of the Seven. He bites his lip so hard it bleeds.

“You’d better set off,” Euron tells him with a wildfire like glow in his eyes. Victarion glares at him, but turns to leave. Perhaps he can leave this ordeal with a bit of his dignity still intact.

“And brother,” he says, “I wouldn’t be so sure that he’s your son.” Victarion grinds his teeth together, and storms away before he can say something he regrets. No matter what he says, Euron will twist his words into something he never meant. He takes a deep breath, and grips his sword.

He reminds himself that Rickon is _his_ son, even if blood says differently. The thought doesn’t bring him much comfort.

 

4.

 

The city itself seems to have become more festive. Joffrey’s wedding is less than a few days away, and Lannister and Tyrell colors decorate the city. Life has not been easy, since the unexpected death of her father, but Cersei thinks that she has done well-enough for herself and her family. Joffrey will still wed the wretched Tyrell girl, the Northern Rebellion has been crushed, and she is about to seal the loyalty of the Vale in a stroke.

“Sansa,” she says softly, as she enters her daughter’s chambers. The girl is putting the final touches on the embroidery project which she will give to her brother and his wife as a gift for their wedding.

“Mother,” her youngest says excitedly. She quickly leaves her embroidery and engulfs her mother in a hug.

“What is it, mother?” Sansa asks, sensing the odd emotions that her mother is displaying,

“You are to be married, my sweet,” she says, trying to bypass the awkward small talk.

“What?” Sansa asks, confusion and shock making their way across her face.

“You will stay for Joffrey’s wedding,” Cersei tells her, “and then you will wed Harrold Hardyng, the new Lord Paramount of the Vale.”

“What happened to Robb Arryn?” Sansa asks. Her daughters played with the Arryn boy when they were children. It’s a pity that he had to fall with the Starks, but he declared for the wrong side of the war.

“Robb Arryn was murdered at the Twins along with Theon Stark,” Cersei tells her daughter, “and now Harrold Hardyng is Warden of the East.” She hopes that her daughter does not ask any further questions. The Red Wedding was a grisly affair, and she does not want to sicken her youngest child with the knowledge. Her daughter hugs her again.

“I’m not ready to leave,” she says softly. Cersei runs a soothing hand through her daughter’s hair.

_She’s only two and ten,_ Cersei thinks, but she shoves the thought out of her head. Another even more unwanted thought takes its place. 

_Gold will be their crowns_ , she thinks, _and gold will be their shrouds_. But the hair on Sansa’s crown is not gold like Myrcella’s and Joff’s, she reminds herself. Sansa’s hair is the brilliant russet shade of weirwood leaves and blood.

“My darling,” she says, “you are a Lannister, a lion, and you are strong.”

"Maybe I am,” Sansa tells her as she bites her lips, “but what if Margaery isn’t?” Cersei lets out a frustrated sigh. Sansa’s always been too compassionate. First she worries for the Stark girl, and now she worries for Margaery Tyrell.

“We both know what Joffrey is,” Sansa say softly.

“Joffrey is your brother,” Cersei says, “and your king.” Sansa looks down at her feet, and doesn’t respond.

“I love you,” Cersei says, as she engulfs her in another hug, “and the Vale will be yours.” Robb Arryn was a fool, and people say that Harold Hardyng is even worse. Cersei will gladly use him to bind the Vale to their cause, but if he hurts her daughter, she won’t hesitate to burn him where he stands. 

 

  
5. 

 

Raventree Hall is the last Stark loyalist stronghold in the Riverlands. Riverrun has surrendered, and Jaime expects the Blackwoods will not resist his peace terms. He does not, however, expect that Lord Blackwood will be a boy of nine.

“I’m Brandon Blackwood,” he says, “but you can call me Bran.” Jaime suddenly does not feel so good about beating down the door of the castle.

“Jaime Lannister,” he says. He considers holding out a hand to shake, but thinks better of it after remembering his stump.

“Please, Ser Jaime,” he asks, “come with me to the Godswood.” Jaime follows the boy, who is about half of his height, through the ancient walls of Raventree Hall. The Godswood is a sea of deep green trees and at the center sits a dead weirwood with an old, tattered face. The red leaves have all fallen from its branches, but ravens coat the branches like bark.

“That’s how the castle got its name,” Brandon tells him, “the tree’s been full of ravens for centuries, even before the old weirwood died.” 

“Lord Blackwood,” Jaime says, though the boy hardly looks a lord. He looks too young to even be a squire.

“I came to negotiate your surrender,” he says, trying to remind himself as much as he is trying to inform the boy.

“What other choice do I have?” Brandon asks him, with a confused look in his eyes.

“None,” Jaime replies. Bran laughs at that.

“How did you end up as lord anyway?” Jaime asks. He’s never been particularly good at keeping to propriety, and this lord is nine. A breach in protocol won’t kill anyone.

“My older brothers died at the Whispering Wood,” he says, “and my father died in the Red Wedding. I was the oldest one left.” The boy looks longingly at the weirwood.

“I warned them not to answer the Starks’ call to arms,” the boy lord says, “but no one ever listens to me.” Jaime feels an unpleasant sort of uncertainty settle over him.

“Why would you tell them not to?” he asks.

“I dreamt all of this,” Brandon tells him, “the battles, the wedding. I even dreamed that I’d meet you.” Something cold creeps up Jaime’s spine.

“I need to take a hostage,” he says frantically. The boy must be lying, or mad, but he’s still unsettling him. Jaime needs to finish up his business and get far, far away from Raventree.

“Do you think I’ll take up arms against you?” the lord asks, with a humored quality to his voice. Jaime doesn’t respond.

“You’re free to take either of us. There’s just Tommen and I left,” Brandon tells him, “and Tommen is six.” Jaime sighs.

“The Stark banner needs to be taken down,” Jaime says, “and I want written documentation of your allegiance.” Brandon climbs up and removes the banner from the castle, replacing it with Joffrey’s standard. Then he writes out a letter to the king.

 

“Our work here is done,” Jaime says, and he feels as though the entire castle has turned against him. Jaime can’t wait to leave.

“Beware what lies to the North, Jaime Lannister,” Brandon Blackwood tells him.

“What?” Jaime asks.

“The Others,” Bran tells him, “Winter is coming, and the dead will come walking again.” The boy looks him directly in the eyes, and his river blue eyes seem to take on an other-worldly glow.

“They will cause more harm than any of the kings scrambling for a throne,” the little lord tells him. A chill spreads across Jaime’s spine, but he tries to ignore it. Young Lord Blackwood is either mad, or more knowledgeable than any person has a right to be.

“Goodbye, Lord Blackwood,” Jaime says, but he thinks _good riddance._ As he makes his way out of the castle, he tries to convince himself that it’s simple lunacy. The mad little lord will be no threat to the king, and hopefully neither will his Others.

 

  
\+ 1. 

 

Harrenhal is just as ruinous and foreboding when Roose arrives after the Red Wedding as it was when he left his bastard in charge. The boy had wanted to accompany his true-born brother in Theon Stark’s host, but the young king had denied him because of his bastard birth. He supposes that the boy should be grateful that the boy king denied him, though, because now Domeric is dead, and Jon is his heir.

He walks through the large, cavernous halls of the castle as his men and Lannister men trail behind him. He finds Jon on the way to the yard, clutching his sword. The boy expected to spar this morning. Instead, he ends up meeting his father. Jon immediately tries to look presentable upon spotting him.

“My lord,” Jon says.

“Come speak with me,” he says, and Jon follows him into the nearest closed chambers.

“House Stark is finished,” Roose says simply. He had told Jon bits and pieces of their plan beforehand, but only the necessities. He only knew that the reign of Theon Stark was going to end abruptly. Roose has not mentioned the betrothal or the legitimization.

“Good,” Jon says, and Roose isn’t surprised. His bastard son held no love for Theon Stark. He still blames the boy for Domeric’s death, which works to Roose’s advantage. If he didn’t, it would be much harder to convince the child that he sadly sired with a conscience to go along with his plans.

“I am now Warden of the North,” Roose tells him, “and you are my heir.”

“Heir?” Jon asks, clearly more confused by that part than the first.

“The king has legitimized you,” Roose says.

“Father,” Jon says, “I don’t- I can’t- I’m not a Bolton.”

“No,” Roose says, “but you’re close enough.” He is frankly becoming irritated at his bastard son’s sense of honor.

“But Domeric-”

“Is dead,” Roose says as his voice turns as cold as a Northern winter, “as good as murdered by the Starks. It is your duty to continue our house.”

“Of course, my lord,” Jon says, finally resigning himself to a fate most bastards would kill for. But Jon has never been like most bastards. He always loved Domeric too well to hope for his downfall.

“We will take Winterfell,” Roose tells him, “and then you will wed Jeyne Stark.”

“What of the bedding,” Jon says softly, clearly afraid of the answer that he’ll get.

“Either she will comply or she will not,” Roose says, “a babe gotten of rape is still a babe, is it not?” Jon seems disgusted at the words, but not surprised. He’s heard the story of his conception often enough to know how he was sired. He glares at Roose, but his father stares him down. Jon’s morality means nothing compared to the fate of his house.

“I feel like a traitor,” Jon mutters.

“You swore Theon Stark no oaths,” his father assures, “and mine were worth nothing. The boy was a fool. You’re doing his sister a great kindness, allowing her to return to Winterfell in the first place.”

“Jeyne Bolton,” he says softly, “it sounds pretty.” Roose doesn’t grace his son’s folly with an answer. Both of his sons have always been hopelessly naïve, but he thinks that Jon is less so. He was raised as a farm boy. Roose appreciates this sometimes. The boy has fewer delusions about how the world works.

“I miss him,” Jon says, and the statement almost makes him grit his teeth angrily together. He hates when Jon is sentimental, but he supposes that Domeric deserves some sentiment.

Roose is not lying when he replies, “I miss him as well.” They sit for a moment in a silence he suspects Jon finds awkward.

“Pack your things,” Roose tells him, “we’re heading North in the morning.” Jon sits silently at the table, and seems far less excited than a legitimized bastard ought to be.

 

Roose finds that he doesn’t care, though. Jon will do his duty to House Bolton, and more importantly, carry out his will. Roose’s schemes are worth nothing if his pawns do not play their parts.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to ask if anything about this fic is hazy. I understand that I tried to cram a whole lot of universe into a very short fic.
> 
> Also, if you'd like to tell which section was your favorite that would be awesome :)


End file.
